My brother’s keepers

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>	Are we on the air? By Linda Buchanan Wagner ’79
>	A generation in search by Nancy Obrien ’94
>	For you, A.J. by Ed Ziegler ’72
>	Whit one day, world the next by Marie Ranoia Alonso ’90
>	My brother’s keepers by Jim Koscs ’85
>	Can you say, “College is super-dee-dupor?” by Moira Jablon-Bernstein ’92
>	Project Santa from a New Perspective by Lisa Shea Linden ’86
>	The train to college by Dorothy Ciryak Clark Leonard ’76, ’84
>	Debating the future by Ron Weisberger ’65
>	A deeply-rooted relationship by Harriet Clevenger Lockwood ’88
>	Curtain or copy: a major decision by Susan Goodman Magod
>	The bear necessities of friendship by Qraig R. de Groot ’93
>	Special delivery by Darlene Beck-Jacobson ’74
>	A room of my own by Melissa F. Sherman ’86
>	The diploma by Ros Psolka ’90
>	Remembering Sabrina by Ros Psolka ’90
>	Who wants my 33s? By Jim Koscs ’85
>	Looking for a sign By Wendy Weber Crawford ’75, ’79, ’88
>	An ode to 27A South Main Street By Keith Forrest ’88
>	Our flag in the window By Lori Marshall ’92
>	Mail, mortality and American mettle By Brian Kass’85
>	Christmas trees in the Kremlin By Don Dunnington’97
>	Aimless and malcontent no more By Tim Zatzariny, Jr. ’94
>	Bringing the family By Susan Parker ’74
>	A little too soon for golden oldies By Keith Forrest ’88
>	Tale of a tile man By Sabatino Mangini ’01
>	Remembering Reagan By David Coyle ’81
>	Time well spent By Leigh Koebert ’97
>	Still a college kid... By Gregg Clayton ’81
>	What’s at the end of your “If only…”? By Carol Servino ’75
>	Catching the moment and the meaning By Casey Christy ’92, M’03
>	Starting at Glassboro, finishing at Rowan By Lori Samlin Miller ’77
>	Room to grow By Casey Christy ’92, M’03
>	Lifelong friends in spite of themselves By Patricia Quigley ’78, M’03

My brother’s keepers
By Jim Koscs ’85

colleague asked me to recommend a new computer for his daughter, a college freshman. “I thought about giving her my old Pentium 75,” he said, “but it’s only got 12 meg RAM and the hard drive is less than a gig. I don’t want the other students to laugh at her. Kids can be cruel.” I nodded in agreement.

Perhaps to prove to each other that we hadn’t become a couple of computer-spoiled wusses, we began to commiserate about using typewriters—if you can imagine—during our own college tenures.
“I didn’t even own one,” my friend quipped. “I’d borrow my roommate’s.” I had to stop myself from lecturing him on the ludicrous notion of a student going to college without a typewriter. Until senior year, I was the only one of five students in our apartment to have one, a $60 Brother portable manual. I allowed my roommates to borrow it.

“That reminds me of a story,” I said.

An argument between two of my roommates, Bill and Brian, had somehow escalated into a penny-throwing melee. Bill, a former pitcher for Ringwood’s Lakeland High baseball team, had a decided advantage over Brian. He gained another when, for reasons long-forgotten, I scrambled for my own penny stash and allied with him.

For protection, I donned an absent roommate’s Phillies batting helmet. Bill wore his Lakeland helmet and, together, we unleashed a punishing assault on the un-helmeted Brian. Outgunned and outmaneuvered, Brian retrieved two eggs from the fridge to use as shields, thinking a potential mess on the carpet would deter us. We laughed, and with unyielding penny salvos, forced his retreat into the living room closet.

Quick-thinking Bill barricaded the closet door with a large armchair, and then sat in it. Brian started mumbling about terms of surrender, but Bill refused to budge. The fun stopped five minutes later when Dale, a neighbor and acquaintance, rang the doorbell. Dale had lived across the quad in Crossings J-building for three years, but, I swear, until that moment, never paid us a visit.

“I heard you guys have a typewriter,” Dale said. It must have been divine intervention for Brian, because I stored my little portable in his impromptu cell. Bill begged me with his eyes to lie to Dale, but I couldn’t. Dale looked desperate. Besides, he could plainly hear Brian’s muffled “Let me out you (bleeps)!” shouts from within the closet and “It’s in here” when Dale mentioned the typewriter. And truth be told, neither Bill nor I wanted Dale spreading rumors.

“Sorry you had to see this” was all a disappointed Bill could say to Dale as we released a fuming Brian. I lent Dale the Brother but had to knock on his door a week later to get it back—he’d lent it to one of his roommates.

“So who picked up all the pennies?” was all my colleague asked. He bought his daughter a loaded Pentium 166 but solicited advice on printers from someone else.

_____________________
Jim Koscs is a freelance automotive writer and consultant to Mercedes-Benz of North America. He lives in Hawthorne and also writes automotive features for The Star-Ledger.